


Lessons in friendship 5 - Practising to give

by TheGracefulBlueCat



Series: Lessons in Friendship [5]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Afghanistan, Caring Sherlock, Flashbacks, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, John Whump, PTSD John, Panic Attacks, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Sherlock practices to take care, Touch-issues, Triggers, Trust, war memories
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-21
Updated: 2015-05-08
Packaged: 2018-02-22 02:34:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 8,533
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2491301
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheGracefulBlueCat/pseuds/TheGracefulBlueCat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This takes place shortly after the Baskerville case. <br/>Sherlock had realised before how important John's friendship is to him and the need to practise arises. Then John has a flashback Sherlock is thrown into the cold water and needs to learn how to swim fast. No First Person POV but almost entirely from Sherlock's side, except the last chapter, which features what John thinks.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Explosion

**Author's Note:**

> Standard disclaimer: Sherlock, John and all other mentioned characters belong to BBC or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle or BBC. I just borrowed them for fun. I wrote this for my personal delight and improving my English, no copyright infringement intended. No money changed hands and no profit is being made.
> 
> Thanks to my beta reader Graveofthefireflies!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John has a panic attack.

 

 

They had just finished visiting a crime scene with Lestrade and were about to leave. The scene and the warehouse had been inspected carefully because Sherlock feared there might be more explosives.

They left the building, following Lestrade back to the parked Scotland Yard's cars while

discussing the evidence that they had found - or better Sherlock was deeply in an unending monologue and Lestrade listened.

They hadn't reached the cars when an earth shattering blow knocked them to the ground.

 

Dazed, Sherlock pushed himself up from his ungraceful prone position.

The blast had knocked him flat forward to the ground. His ears were ringing and he was disoriented for a few seconds at first, but unharmed.

Next to him Lestrade was struggling to his feet, too.

Sherlock looked for John and saw him getting up in a hurry a few steps behind them. Stumbling, he ducked and then - almost crawling - he moved towards the cars, obviously searching for cover.

For a long moment, the detective was irritated.

This wasn't like the doctor, especially when there was the chance that wounded people or even friends were nearby. John hadn't even checked on anyone slowly recovering all around him.

After a questioning glance at Lestrade, who nodded back he was ok, Sherlock hurried after his friend. John had taken cover behind one of the cars and was sitting with his back leaned against the wheel, his head hidden between his knees and his arms.

"John?"

No reaction.

"John? Are you hurt?" Sherlock tried.

No response.

Only now he registered the other man was trembling.

Hearing damage?

"John, look at me!"

Lestrade came closer. "Is he hurt?"

"I don't know…. John?" Sherlock knelt down next to him.

"He's in shock?"

"John…?" Sherlock scanned the shivering figure.

Then he carefully worked his long fingers under the doctor's sleeve and wrapped them around his wrist. Pulse fast, skin clammy and cold. Definitely signs of shock, but maybe something else, too.

"Can you, sit up?" Sherlock gently tried to shake his flatmate to make him lift his head.

But John was tensed and quite stiff.

"Hey mate! I want you to look at me!" Lestrade gently grabbed John's shoulders from above and tried to make him sit up.

This finally caused John to start struggling. His hands tried to get rid of the attacker, knocking Sherlock down to his bottom in the process.

"John!… It's me!… Don't fight," Sherlock urged, his voice calm, but an alarm tag started vibrating in his mind.

"Easy, it's alright," Lestrade tried to soothe.

Sherlock held onto John who was trying to get away now, desperate and not really seeing his surroundings, a haunted look in his eyes. They were moving constantly like the eyes of a cornered animal. Obviously, John was not seeing the same things they were.

"It's okay, mate, calm down!" Lestrade tried but didn't attempt to touch him again.

Finally, John gave up resisting being held in place, even stopped moving at all. He just stared blindly ahead, eyes wide in horror.

"John? Speak to me!"

"No …. Sir, he's dead, Sir. Couldn't help him," John whispered. "Oh god…"

Lestrade frowned, "I'm gonna get a blanket, find out if he's bleeding." Then he vanished.

"John? Talk to me!" Sherlock ordered.

Possible Flashback? He needed to collect some more information.

"Yes, Sir. Centre of explosion in quadrant N-4, near the camp's back entrance. Three dead, four severely injured, situation unclear," the former soldier mumbled.

Clearly a flashback, Sherlock decided. Not to worsen the situation he very slowly moved his hand over John's back, searching for any wetness or injuries. When the other man seemed okay with the touch, he checked his legs, arms, and chest.

No resisting, no visible injuries.

"Are you hurt?" Sherlock asked, hoping he would be mistaken for a superior or whoever John had addressed with 'Sir'.

"Don't think so, Sir. Just bruises," John's tone clearly indicated giving a report. He seemed to hear fine. However, there was the possibility he answered what he had in the situation he was reliving, and it might not be true for the current one, so it was no use.

Sherlock rested his hand against the side of John's head and gripped his hand with the other. A try to give comfort, though he felt clumsy in this unknown area. Practising to give comfort in public was even worse. John would be embarrassed later.

"Everything is okay now. You are not in Afghanistan. You are in London," Sherlock tried to connect him to his real sensory input and disconnect the input of the memory. Since he doubted someone had touched the doctor that way in Afghanistan, he hoped it might bring him out of this. He also hoped that no one was watching, especially not Anderson.

"What's happening here, Sherlock?" Lestrade was back.

"Why don't you just observe and think?… He's having a flashback! Quite obvious I'd say," his tone was fierce.

"Flashback?… What…?"

"His mind is in a war zone somewhere… Give me that blanket!"

He reached for it and started wrapping it around John inexpertly. Lestrade helped.

"No!... I'm fine. Take care of the Corporal, he's hi'n the back," the doctor tried to get rid of their hands.

"We need to get him to the hospital, he might go into shock," Lestrade suggested.

"He already is, kind of... and a hospital is the last thing he needs right now. He needs calm and safe and comfort," Sherlock explained.

"And you think you are able to give that?" Lestrade raised his eyebrows. "Come on, Sherlock you are not even able to treat him like a friend…. Have you ever even looked up _comfort_ in a dictionary? Not your type of thing, I guess," his voice was not insulting, just stating the facts.

"He's bleeding out fast, I need a gurney," John struggled to get the words out and then tried to get up.

"Stay put, John… Everything is under control. Just sit down."

As gentle as he could, Sherlock held him down by the shoulders.

"Bloody hell, he's dying!!!" John yelled and grew more agitated. Some people looked their way.

Sherlock suddenly understood that his strategy wasn't working, so he changed it.

"No, the bleeding has clearly slowed down. See? He is not going to die, he'll be fine… He is getting care already. Help is here. Let them work!" Sherlock tried in a low and calming voice.

"You're adding to his hallucination, I am not sure this is a good idea," Lestrade started. "Where is the damn ambulance?"

"He is not going to the hospital!" Sherlock repeated slightly angry now.

John fought him weakly, still mumbling.

"What do you want to do? You can't help him. He's delirious."

"No, he's not. He's reliving a moment from the war, this happens with PTSD. I need some water. You have candy… anything sweet? He needs positive stimuli."

"What?… He has PTSD?… Bloody hell! Why didn't you tell me?"

 

 


	2. Flashback

 

 

"I need something tasting nice, maybe some soda?… Fast!" Sherlock repeated.

The doctor started to struggle harder and Lestrade hurried towards some of the police officers.

"John, you are _not_ in danger. It is not necessary to fight me, calm down… We need to solve this case." He realised this might bring himself back to reality but probably not John.

Tell him something he cares about...

"Your blog has had another two thousand four hundred and eight visitors tonight!" he tried talking about something he knew John cared about.

No reaction other than John lifting his head to the sky and panting in an agitated way.

Probably not really what his flatmate needed. Sherlock didn't know what else to say. He felt helpless and out of ideas.

Was Lestrade right and he would only do further damage with his sentiment-blindness-thing?

Under his hands, John gulped and thrashed weakly.

What soothed John?

The violin - No, _him_ playing the violin. The thing was, the violin was not available… so any other music?

Where to get music?

Sherlock was probably one of the few people who had no music on his phone.

Maybe John had?

"John?… Calm down, you're safe… You're in London… I'm gonna take your phone."

He reached into John's jacket and took the device. Meanwhile the doctor was staring ahead with blind eyes, not resisting Sherlock's touch now.

Lestrade came back the moment Sherlock had cracked the phone's password.

"Now, wait a minute… He has PTSD and you used him to perform a stress test on him in Baskerville?… To cause a drug induced anxiety attack…? Bloody hell, did you know back then?" Lestrade yelled at him.

Sherlock lowered his eyes, the events of the past month had made it more clear than ever to him what an asshole he had been and how bad he had treated John, not only performing the test on him but in general. Several people had told him so… including John.

He had found out his flatmate didn't open up to him because he was sure Sherlock would only reopen old wounds if he did. Sherlock had tried to be a better friend… but now shame crept up on him again.

The fact that the detective didn't respond proved that Lestrade was right, to both of them. Sherlock let go of John's trembling form.

"You knew… God, Sherlock! You know this... this is," Greg seemed to struggle for words to express his anger, "this is violation - even abuse! How could you?"

Lestrade grabbed his collar and Sherlock expected to get punched in the face. He was really angry, maybe angrier than Sherlock had ever seen him.

"I share your opinion that it was very - that it was a bad choice," Sherlock admitted.

Lestrade slowed down shaking him.

"In case you considering punching me - I deserve it. But, could we please delay it until I had the change to help him with this particular matter… Seems a bit more urgent right now."

Lestrade let go of him, with a slightly repulsed expression on his face.

"Bloody hell, Sherlock… How could you!… I wonder why he does this to himself, sometimes…."

"Does what?"

"Waste his friendship on you."

"What happened?" someone asked behind them.

When he turned, Sherlock saw a paramedic with a heavy bag kneel down beside them.

"He's having a flashback. PTSD. Former soldier."

"He has those often?" The medic asked, reaching for John's neck to feel his pulse.

The moment he touched him, John tried to get away in what could only be described as blind panic. Sherlock reacted quickly and pinned him to the car.

"Don't touch him! No, this is a rare event… John, come back to me."

Suspecting the medic could do nothing, Sherlock held up his hand between them. He seemed to be the only person who at least had _some_ background information to what was happening. Therefore, it was his responsibility from the moment he had realised what was happening. He tried to recall what John had said back at the car on their way back home from Baskerville.

"Oh god, don't touch me… Take care of Lieutenant Jones first… Please… I'm fine," John was getting more agitated again.

"You got something for anxiety attacks?" Sherlock asked the medic, now remembering that  John had used such a medication before.

Was John really only allowing _him_ to touch him?

More likely it was random. However, it had now happened three times that John grew agitated when someone else touched him… No, John was a doctor, he was used to being touched… and he touched patients all the time. Must be a coincidence.

"Sure," the man offered him a small dropper bottle a few seconds later, already unscrewed.

"He is a doctor, he used something like this before… John, I need you to lean your head back and open your mouth." Sherlock started but when the medic reached out to John's head he hissed. "Don't touch him! How much?… Come on, John."

He reached for John's head to hold it in place and when John didn't flinch he gently bent it backwards and thumbed his mouth open a bit.

"Six drops should suffice," the medic answered.

Sherlock pulled the dropper out of the bottle the medic still held in reach and let six drops fall onto his friend's tongue.

When John still didn't fight him he decided to leave his hand at the other man's neck… The doctor had touched Sherlock's head when he had been hurt in the past and Sherlock remembered it had a soothing and stabilizing.

John was barely moving now, just staring ahead without seeing anything.

Sherlock reached for John's phone again with his other hand and held it out to Lestrade.

"Play some music, slow, calming… maybe instrumental."

For a moment, Greg looked at him in puzzlement, but then he understood he was asked to look for music on the phone.

"We don't need further assistance right now, why don't you search for someone in need?" Sherlock addressed the medic who was obviously feeling unneeded, helpless, and frustrated about the fact that Sherlock wouldn't let him treat the patient.

"This man is in need of care and it's my duty to do that," he insisted.

"Give me some gloves and get out of my sight!" Sherlock's voice rose.

"Shh... Sherlock, don't agitate him," Greg hushed.

And Lestrade was right, John was starting to move again.

"No… no… Oh god," John whimpered.

"Please leave us, I take responsibility," Lestrade addressed the medic, who threw him an unconvinced look but turned away. Obviously, Greg had come to the conclusion this was not as new to Sherlock as it was to him, and that Sherlock at least knew what to try.

Lestrade finally found some music because in the next moment _Bridge over troubled water_ came out of the phone.

Sherlock raised his eyebrows at Lestrade, "Really?"

"Sir?" A young female stood behind them.

"What is it, Evans?" Lestrade wanted to know.

"I found some sherbet. One of the officers had it in his car for his daughter, Sir." She seemed unsure of what to think of the situation before her eyes. "And some water, sir."

"That's great, Evans. Thanks." Lestrade took the candy and the bottle and she trotted away.

"We need to stop the bleeding, fast. Come on," John argued.

"Good. Open the package. What is it? Powder?"

"Looks like it… Some blackcurrant flavoured stuff." Greg ripped open the package. "Yeah, powder. You're sure this is a good idea? I mean he could choke on that."

"I won't make him choke, I only need a bit."

But how to give it to him? Pouring it into his mouth would definitely make him choke.

Sherlock realised he hadn't thought about a delivering method. His fingers were dirty, as were John's. 

"Should I get a spatula or tongue depressor out of the first aid kit?" Greg suggested.

"No, we're fine… open the bottle and let me wet my finger... John, I will touch you, don't fight me." Sherlock pulled a pair of medical gloves out of his coat pocket and slipped one of them onto his right. Then he returned the free hand to the side of John's face and again thumbed his mouth open an inch. He poked his finger first in the water, then in the powder Lestrade was offering.

Carefully and slowly he then touched the tip of John's tongue with a small amount of the now effervescent substance.

"John, come back… You are in London. There was an explosion, but we are safe now. There is no war and no attack. You are safe! Come on. The weather is wet, smell the rain… and you can taste the sherbet. Do you like it?" Sherlock tried to ground him with his voice.

"Oh god," John whimpered again.

"You're with me?… John, can you hear me?" Sherlock spoke louder now to, the low music still playing.

The scene was kind of loony. Sherlock was glad Lestrade had not yet thought about taking pictures.

"One more."

Sherlock repeated his moves and brought some more candy powder into John's mouth.

"That's it… Can you tell me what flavour it is?"

Keep talking, Sherlock reminded himself.

Talk him back to reality. Nonsense is better than not talking.  Bring the feeling of London around them to his awareness, so that John knew where he was.

"You need to come back, now, back to London. We're on a case, remember?"

John's breathing speed up and he clumsily fought Sherlock's hand, shoved it away. He tried to get up and made it to his knees before Sherlock got a good grip and held him steady on his upper arms.

"John!!!… Look at me…. JOHN!" he tried.

The former soldier stopped struggling and blinked… and blinked again.

The look on his face could be described as stunned panic and he was holding his breath.

"Breathe John… Easy… Just breathe," Sherlock lowered his head towards his, mentally preparing that John might start fighting in earnest or run out of power completely within the next minute.

"Oh god," John breathed, "Let me go…"

He panted shallowly and Sherlock watched him closely.

"I think you would fall to the ground if I let go, nobody is watching. It's okay."

When John's eyes started to fill he was quite sure that John was completely back with him and that his need to hide had led to his plea to let him go.

Realising that his flatmate might feel very vulnerable not, Sherlock decided to remove things that might embarrass him now or later.

"Sit back down, easy," he told the still trembling man.

"Hnnn…." John sagged forward limply and since Sherlock was prepared he carefully pulled him towards his shoulder to prevent a fall. To his surprise he felt John lean heavily against him, but not falling…. and felt he was shaken by silent sobs, still partly conscious then, though maybe drifting. The medicine was probably kicking in, making him tired.

Sherlock decided to pretend he was out would probably protect John's dignity the most, so he signalled Lestrade to open the backdoor of the car that was only two feet away.

"Stay with me, John… We will go home. Do know where you are?" Sherlock whispered into his friend's ear.

John shook his head, his breath fast and shallow.

"I want you in the back of the car. Lestrade, will you drive us home?"

"Of course. I'll help you inside and then give me a minute to inform Donovan."

Together, they lifted John into the seat.

When they had him settled Lestrade handed Sherlock the phone which was still playing

Sherlock entered the car on the other side while Lestrade went to get an update on the explosion and inform his colleagues that he would be gone for some time.

John sat more or less upright, his jaw clenched and he had a slightly stoic expression on his face, like a statue. Sherlock took John's wrist to monitor his pulse.

"You're okay?" Sherlock started.

Dumb question, of course he is not!

"We will be home soon, relax."

John was obviously still fighting the panic but didn't pull his hand away. His eyes showed awareness and slight disorientation.

"Do you hurt anywhere?" Sherlock's eyes examined him.

Still trembling, still very pale, sweaty.

"Any nausea?" the detective continued to ask.

John shook his head.

"More sugar?" Sherlock tried, another headshake.

"What do you need me to do?"

"I don't know… All I know is I… just relived two of my unit's men bleeding to death - missing vital parts of their bodies. God… Shit," he panted, his voice was hoarse.

"What's happening, John?"

"Leave me alone, please."

"No. Tell me what the problem is."

"Dammit… Guess there's a panic attack ahead… I shouldn't have told you… Triggered myself… Just stop bothering me, would you? Keep your curiosity at bay for a moment, can you do that?"

The doctor unbuckled again and leaned forward, until his head rested against his knees. He then wrapped his arms around his head, trying to control his breathing.

Keep him present, try to distract him, try to comfort him, Sherlock reminded himself. He felt quite  helpless. He wanted to take care of his friend but he had no idea now how to execute the things he wanted to do. He noticed that he was also afraid to do something wrong.

This was affecting him more than he had ever thought possible. He was worried, really worried. Because he couldn't help, because it was an uneasy unhealthy yellow feeling to see John suffering.

He raised his hand but hesitated, then slowly placed it on John's upper back, just rested it there, hoping the touch might be comforting. The phone stopped playing and he reached for it and started another song in a low volume.

Okay, distractions.

It started to rain outside and the raindrops grew slowly louder on the car's roof. John's breathing sped up again.

 

 

 

 

 


	3. Panic attack

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Standard disclaimer: Not my characters, see first chapter for details.

 

 

It started to rain outside and the raindrops grew slowly louder on the car's roof… As did John's breathing.

"I want to help, tell me what to do," Sherlock urged.

"I… I don't know."

John was clearly starting to hyperventilate.

Unable to do anything, Sherlock felt his own panic rise. He had learned how that felt in Baskerville and had been so stupid to confront John with the same thing, lacking the understanding what it would do to him.

He felt helpless. This was a pretty ugly feeling, he realised, darker yellow, dotted with sick white spots and a vague image of the smell of rancid butter. He hadn't felt helpless too often in his life before.

He always thought he'd just know what to do in every possible situation.

What was different now?

Right, caring, sentiment. Nevertheless, this insight wasn't helping at all right now, so he stored it away for later.

He unbuckled, too and moved closer to John.

"Slow down your breathing," he tried.

"Can't… can't breathe."

"You're hyperventilating."

"No shit… My head knows… my body doesn't," John panted. He was loosing the colour he had gained again.

"You need to calm down," Sherlock tried.

"I… know… that… Shut… up!"

"You need a paper bag?"

"NO!… Hyperventilating… is not… dangerous… unless… I pass out… and… choke... on… blocked airway."

"You're sure?"

"Of course… I'm sure. I'm… a bloody… doctor!"

John was clearly getting unnerved. Maybe making him angry was a bad kind of diversion, Sherlock decided.

In his agitation the doctor sat up straight and rested his head back. He started to clench his hands into fists and straightened them out repeatedly. From that the detective draw the conclusion that a tingling sensation was starting, a side effect from hyperventilating. John was obviously working hard on slowing down his breathing, but the effect was minimal.

"If I… pass out.. my body… will… slow the breathing pattern - automatically."

"Has that happened before?"

No answer, but John leaned forward again, gulping repeatedly, now resting his head on his hands, elbows to his knees. He was shaking.

Sherlock remembered that John had told him once that one of the important things in bedside manners and establishing trust in any relationship was: not to do to anybody what you wouldn't want done to yourself. The doctor had also said that usually the reverse was: do what you'd like others to do to you, but then revised the information because what Sherlock wanted would absolutely no way be what usual people wanted.

So Sherlock had added a new mental database in which he stored possible needs of his own and what could be good for him (this alone was difficult at last because it required to realise a need was there) and the adequate needs other people would have when confronted with the same situation. But there were almost no information in that database, yet.

Therefore, his only option was to mimic what John had done in the past.

He would have done to others what he would like to receive, right?

"I'm gonna touch you," Sherlock warned because this was in fact a need _he_ had, to be warned of touch, except from John, at least not any longer. He carefully reached for John's face, still buried in his hands, and sneaked his fingers to into the gap and rested them on his forehead and partly over his eyes. Just resting his hand there.

John's face was clammy. He returned his other hand to rest on John's back.

The other man blew out his breath, slow and through his mouth, and gulped again.

"Er... Sherlock..." 

"Your gonna be sick?" Sherlock asked.

"No," only a whisper.

"What is it?"

With surprising force, John pressed his own hands over Sherlock's, keeping the detective's hand trapped under both of his, holding onto him that way.

"John?" While Sherlock still tried to figure out what the problem was, he felt a rush of heat under his fingers.

"John?... What's happening?"

The next moment John's whole body sagged forward.

Sherlock was perplexed and barely managed to keep his friend's head from colliding with the front seat. He managed to guide his slumping body sideways.

"John?"

Had he passed out from hyperventilating?

No, too soon… for that he'd have to breathe on like that for at least four more minutes.

Stress?

 John had said his body might switch him off when the stress gets too severe. 

"John?… Don't do this!" Sherlock begged and check his breathing.

He opened his seatbelt and position him on his side. The back of John's head lolled against his thigh and he hurried to hold it and cushion it with his scarf.

To his relief he found his flatmate was breathing fine, shallow but otherwise okay. He felt the neck for a pulse, fast but not weak.

When the car door opened, Sherlock jerked in surprise. Lestrade sat down in the driver's seat and turned around to them.

"What happened?"

"I think maybe the… stress made him… pass out?"

"That happened before?"

"Haven't seen it. Though he hinted that the stress might be overwhelming."

"Yeah, most likely he'd hide from you before it would get this far. He probably doesn't want to be seen like this. Maybe we should bring him to a hospital after all." Lestrade started the engine.

"No. It's also possible that the medication was strong enough to knock him?"

Sherlock pulled out his phone and started to goggle the brand name he had read small flask.

"Why are you so sure about that?"

"Because after Baskerville he told me what might be good and what not in this kind of situation. Safe environment: good, embarrassment: bad."

"I don't believe this," Lestrade muttered.

"What?" Sherlock recognised he was getting more stressed by the minute.

"You have started to care? Now when did that happen?"

"Shut up. I try to think here."

He needed to concentrate on other things than teasing or getting insulted right now.

"And what about would that be?" Lestrade wanted to know, sounding puzzled.

"He needs safe… and good… things, comforting things."

"God, you really mean business?"

"Shut up!" Sherlock closed his eyes to block out irritating input.

What did John usually do when he tried to comfort him?

Stupid, he usually had blocked John's tries to comfort him. And John had left him alone after being send away or insulted for his efforts too often. Though John _had_ comforted him, he tried to remember how exactly it had happened.

Non-invasive touch: caring, head, not to gentle, firm, steadying… Check, already doing that, continue. Talking: low, soothing, turquoise in shade, mind-busying... Check, doing that, keeping it up when awareness returns.

Positive stimuli: taste, sounds, textures, smells, … Check, partially done, continue at home.

Textures.

Set mental reminder to provide comfort clothes and...?

Keep this thread for later use, find place to deposit activator: floor of the flat in front of entrance door, add copy to action: 'removing my coat'.

Create 'safe environment' and 'change to do in the flat as soon as home': change the mood of light to safe/warm/bright, keep temperature nice, make tea, find soothing music.

Comforting: further search - related thoughts: no information given by John (didn't know himself, Quote: 'Being able to receiving care depends on the person trying to give').

Sherlock finally realised he had to explore and find his own comforting-John mechanisms.

Slippery topic, too much to ruin-area.

"Sherlock!" Greg almost yelled.

"What is it?" Sherlock sounded distracted, ripped out of his concentration.

"He's coming to, I guess."

Lestrade was right, Sherlock still had his hand under John's head and held his shoulder to keep John's back leaned against the backseat to prevent him from rolling towards the gap. John's position must be everything but comfortable.

They were still unbuckled. Lestrade hadn't criticised it, probably because London's streets were so clogged today they hadn't moved faster than 25 km/h.

Though it was not really like Lestrade not to insist. Things were off, even Greg was affected.

John gently stirred and tried to lift his head.

"ETA?"

"Four to five minutes… Oh, no, more like ten today I guess.." Lestrade sighed when he had to stop again.

"John?"

The doctor's eyes opened, unfocussed and disoriented.

"The rain is really… loud in here," Sherlock tried to provide a focus before John had time to remember to panic. "I am gonna light the fireplace as soon as we get home. Want some Chinese takeout tonight, John?"

It took a moment until John's eyes fixed on him and the very moment their eyes met, the memory returned to John. Sherlock tightened his grip at his friend's shoulder.

John's head turned and when he realised he was resting against Sherlock he tried to get up.

"Don't move, yet… slowly," he added when John struggled out of his grip and sat up, leaning against the backrest in a normal position.

Sherlock assumed the other man's vision was blurry when his gaze finally returned to Sherlock. The emotions passing John's eyes were clearly visible.

Embarrassment replaced the last hint of panic, but was soon replaced by sheer exhaustion and…  surprise?

Did he remember what had happened?

How much? … And what Sherlock had tried?

Was it not good? Had he been overstepping a line?

John must have seen the questions in his face because he minutely shook his head.

"Not now, please."

"Lestrade, would you like to come for a beer in the evening?" Sherlock addressed the DI, trying to give John some privacy and to make small talk.

He could feel Lestrade frown. He knew it might seem to be tactless but Lestrade only needed about seven seconds to understand why he wasn't talking about the case, the explosion or what had just happened.

"I don't know, yet… I'll send you a text. Maybe I'll bring takeout in case you want to wait with dinner… I'll be in contact."

The car stopped and Sherlock saw that they were home.

"Ok, let's get upstairs, where it is dry and warm."

 

 

 


	4. Motives

 

 

Lestrade helped them out of the car and Sherlock realised there was no way John could get up the stairs without help. He was shaky and without ceremony, he lifted John's arm over his head and helped him inside.

Greg nodded a goodbye and was on his way back to the scene a few seconds later.

John tried to head for his bedroom but Sherlock stirred him towards the sofa, stepping over the mental activator that reminded him to take care of _providing comforting textures and fabrics_.

He helped the doctor out of his coat and pushed him to sit down.

Mental note: check for injuries, therefore be present when changing. Provide sweat pants and jumper. John was so exhausted now he didn't resist. Sherlock told him to stay where he was, then headed into the kitchen where he filled the kettle and afterwards he hurried to John's room and fetched dry clothes. When he came back, John hadn't moved, but his gaze was moving through the room a bit haphazardly.

"I want you to put those on," Sherlock handed him the pants.

"Here?"

Sherlock was well aware that there had been the exact reverse situation a few months earlier when he had had a fight with a thief who tried to run.

"Yeah, I need to check you for injuries. Do you hurt somewhere?" he asked the doctor the exact same question John had asked him back then.

"I'm fine."

"As a physician you should be well aware that in your current state you are not capable of saying that for sure. I need to see."

"Oh, come on, you don't want me to-" John looked him in the eyes, unnerved. "Yeah, you do, I get it." He shook his head.

Without further delay, Sherlock started untying his shoelaces.

"Sherlock!"

"John, this will be a lot faster if you stop resisting."

"Says the king of denial and resistance of any care!"

Sherlock removed the shoes and then tried to open John's shirt collar further. John batted his hands away. His movements were clumsy and a bit stiff, and by now Sherlock knew it was the medication.

"Go light the fire, I can do this myself," John grumbled, stood up and with poorly coordinated hand he got into the soft jersey trousers.

Then he started to open the shirt sleeves, he needed several tries to open the buttons.

To Sherlock's great relief he had spotted no visible injuries, yet. He made a mental note to store it as a good tactic to invade John's privacy so far that he does the lesser things Sherlock actually wanted him to do by himself. Sherlock turned towards the fireplace and lit the wood he had just piled there.

Some seconds later he turned and watched John removing his shirt by pulling it over his head instead of opening all the buttons.

John rolled his eyes unnerved but continued. The dark shirt fell onto the sofa.

"Satisfied?"

 John started to unfold the jumper and that was the moment when Sherlock stepped nearer.

"To be honest: No."

"What?"

"Sit down, John."

"What?… Why?" The doctor started to pull the jumper over his head.

Sherlock reached for his hands and stilled them in the air, then took the jumper away and pushed John towards the sofa.

"Oh, come on," John sounded angry.

"You are bleeding, John."

Carefully, Sherlock started to inspected the small wound.

A piece of glass was still in it, but it didn't seem to be big and the wound probably wouldn't even need stitches.

Course of action: get first aid kit and keep him sitting, the last might be some work.

"What? Where?" John tried to see what Sherlock was eyeing.

"Middle of the shoulder blade. It's not large but there is still a piece of glass imbedded, it has stopped bleeding already. Stay here."

As soon as Sherlock turned away, the doctor tried to follow.

"Stay seated."

"Oh, come on, Sherlock. I'm the doctor. I need to see!" He grimaced.

"I'll bring a mirror."

Sherlock deliberately returned and stood in front of John, this way preventing that he could get up. "You probably won't need stitches-"

"Oh, thank you Doctor Holmes," John's voice sounded unbelieving and maybe sarcastic.

"- but I'd be perfectly able to suture it up if needed."

"What? You've done this before? Stitches?"

"Yes."

"On whom? Yourself?"

"Amongst others."

"God, Sherlock. No, don't tell me." Once more he tried to get up and obviously hoped Sherlock would back off when he started to move.

"Stay seated! I need to learn how to take care."

There, he had said it. Though if John had paid any attention at all he should have understood this a while ago.

"What?"

"You criticised I didn't want or know how to take care and that I am selfish. Now, I need to learn to do so."

John leaned back on the sofa, kind of hit by that insight. A lot of odd things Sherlock had done in the past weeks fell into place suddenly. Things he had done that had been a bit like a kid's tries, a bit blunt and superficial from the outside. John had stopped wondering long ago about most of Sherlock's behaviours and had decided to just step back and wait, sooner or later he would somehow understand or be told what it was about.

That was what was happening now, behaviours suddenly making sense.

"I…" John seemed to be a bit speechless, his eyes wide in surprise.

"Please assist me in learning." 

 

 

 


	5. The scar

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock sees John's scar in detail for the first time.

 

 

"Please assist me in learning." 

John's eyes widened even more. He knew Sherlock was not as emotionless as he wanted the world to believe. He had known Sherlock cared about him in his own way, but this was...

The doctor couldn't decide between laughing and unbelieving resistance.

"If you are making fun of me or this is just one of your experiments I swear-"

Sherlock looked a bit as if wanting to make a retreat.

"I need to take a look at that, and get the glass out. Will you allow me taking care of that?"

"Okay, okay… but bring a mirror, please. I want to see it."

Sherlock turned away and came back a few seconds later with a bowl of water, some napkins, the first aid kit and a mirror.

"We need to remove the vest," Sherlock ordered while unpacking the kit, then helping a kind of desperate looking John out of the undergarment.

"Great, even more glad no one saw this one."

"Well. Hopefully no one but Mycroft," Sherlock said dryly.

"What?" John looked at him in alarm.

"That was a joke." He sat down in front of John. "He spied on you when you first moved in."

"Oh, hell," John now sounded oddly desperate.

Sherlock's gaze went to a discolouration on the front side of John's shoulder.

A moment later he realised this was the scar left from Afghanistan.

Sherlock had not seen it at close proximity before. It was still kind of violet and the size indicated the bullet had entered from the front. He looked closer.

A few centimetres left of it was the large cut where the doctors had made one of the incisions during surgery. The dots where the sutures had been were still clearly visible, too.

"Please don't start looking for your magnifier," John's tone was not angry, just tired.

"I might need it later to look for pieces of glass," Sherlock informed, aware that he had just stared at his friend's naked skin.

"Please, let's get this over with, it's embarrassing enough."

"Why is it embarrassing?"

John just sighed and turned around to lay down with his back to Sherlock, accepting help and entrusting the detective with this.

Now the exit wound was clearly visible.

Sherlock sucked in air in surprise. It was a lot bigger and looked nasty, in addition, there were more scars from stitches around it. The complications John had endured had worsened the cicatrisation.

It must have hurt a lot. In fact, it looked as if it might still hurt.

"What's wrong?" John sat up alarmed.

"Nnnothing..."

John turned around again to look at his face… and saw appealed raw empathy on Sherlock's face.

At first he wondered if the wound was a lot bigger than Sherlock had thought but then he remembered - the second scar.

Heavy silence settled.

Sherlock realised how close he had come to lose John before he had even known him. On the other hand, if he hadn't been wounded they would probably never have met.

The minute things that changed everything in the fabric of reality and how big little things like the path of a bullet were on everything shook Sherlock.

For a few seconds that seemed endless he was lost in the maelstrom of possibilities - and in the realisation how complex reality was. Sometimes the craziness of existence left him feel lost and displaced, this was one of those moments. They produced a heavy shadow of feeling lost in space with a bad aftertaste and the question what existence was at all. His consciousness failed to grasp it and the feeling of loneliness made time stretch uncomfortably.

"Sherlock?" John must have already addressed him before, according to his slightly worried tone. The detective fought back to reality and gulped. He didn't like these awkward moments of feeling reality slip away.

"Yes?"

"Come on. Get that glass out. I am tired."

"Okay. Turn around."

John did as told and rested his head on the armrest. Sherlock took the tweezers and wiped them with alcohol, then did the same with his fingers.

The smell bit his nostrils and he tried to ignore the input, it was irrelevant right now, back to the task on hand.

He placed a folded napkin on John's back to rest his hand on in order to keep it still, then started trying to pull the small thing gently. The doctor hissed.

"You know, good bedside manners would include informing the patient of what you are doing," he told Sherlock in a slightly unnerved tone.

"Well, I wasn't sure, because someone said that expecting pain might add to the perception of its intensity, so I thought it might be better to just do it."

"Right, this is true, but causing a patient unexpected pain might destroy trust… and the patient starts to be on alert as soon as the treating party enters the room, consciously our unconsciously. So telling him what is happening and maybe even how much pain is to expect adds to trust indirectly."

"I will remember it next time," Sherlock informed and pulled the piece of glass free. It was half a centimetre in diameter and had left a cut that was short and superficial but now bleeding again.

"I took the glass out. I'm gonna let that bleed for a moment and then check if it's clean."

"Sounds good," John sounded tired.

Sherlock's gaze once more shifted to the scar. He didn't know why this affected him - seeing it.

Deep in thoughts, he carefully probed it by stroking it with his left thumb.

It felt a bit calloused. John tensed but remained unmoving.

"Sorry," Sherlock jerked back his hand, not sure if he had just stepped over a line.

"It's okay, but please, don't ask, not now." 

"I…"

His friend was right, he had loads of questions, but he would save them for later.

"I'm gonna clean the wound now, that might be… uncomfortable," he warned this time.

He gently cleansed the dried and fresh red away and swapped the area generously with iodine. John didn't make the tiniest noise.

"Pull the ends together slightly when applying the adhesive tape, please," John sounded half asleep.

"Yes, doctor."

Sherlock bandaged the small incision in detail. Taking his time to detour to observe how it felt to him touching John and to his relieve found out it was neutral. He hoped it was the same for John.

Well, he _had_ relaxed more and more during the past few minutes.

And then John started to let out slightly snoring noises.

He had fallen asleep?

Sherlock raised his eyebrows.

How could he fall asleep in the middle of… _this_?

Sherlock understood suddenly that just because _he_ could never have let go enough in such a situation didn't mean John couldn't and it was good somehow that John must have felt safe enough to let go even though this was happening.  

Sherlock was sure he would only be able to sleep in the presence of people he really really trusts. So, this might be a proof of confidence, which was good.

He took the blanket and spread it over the sleeping doctor, then cleaned up the medical paraphernalia and settled down in his comforter by the fire.

Some hours later Sherlock still sat there, working on his laptop when John stirred again.

The detective stood up and went over to sit on coffee table again.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was diagnosed with PTSD five years ago after quite an odyssey and eight years of trying to cope with it alone without knowing what I was dealing with. The last two years of that being treated by unskilled (in the field of PTSD) therapists for depression, which was more than counterproductive.  
> I am grateful that a lot has changed about treatment and awareness of PTSD and depression in society over the past years though it's still far from enough. I am glad and grateful this thing is part of the BBC-series because this might help change society's way to look at depression and this kind of disorder, which would help the people suffering from it.  
> Everybody experiences the symptoms different and there are quite a lot.  
> I don't have any medical knowledge, just the stuff you learn by having to cope with it.  
> The approach how to treat PTSD seems to be different in countries all over the world and even in clinics within one country.  
> .  
> Thank you for reading :)  
> I'd love to hear what you think.


	6. Chapter 6

 

 

John woke up to dim light and with a blanket covering him. He was on the sofa, and he felt he had not bothered to put on a shirt or anything at all before falling asleep.

Then the events of the day returned to him and he turned around. He looked directly at Sherlock who sat behind him, on the table, just looking at him.

"You weren't making fun of me..."

Sherlock pressed his lips into a slim line and John understood what had happened during the past hours - or at least what he remembered of that. And it made him understand this was _not_ a joke, it was even pretty good trying to work out how to take care of another human being.

Sherlock had done things he had never thought possible when he came out of his flashback. The detective had honestly gone through a lot of trouble to help him.

As with all things the detective does he had done it in-depth and in detail. He had analysed, tested, and tried things in order to find the best way of dealing with it, Sherlock was doing this in earnest!

John's mouth opened and he looked up to Sherlock who had obviously just waited for anything to happen, maybe with a slightly worried expression.

Worried? Sherlock?

"You are not joking, I got it. I see your need to improve your social skills, and I approve that you try to, but I can't guarantee you that I always have the patience to discuss things when I feel bad."

"Since it would be of need for me to also learn to recognise such a situation and react properly… that would also be a lecture in this field, I guess."

"Uh, Sherlock…" John started, feeling this was somewhere between awkward and admirable. "You can't handle this like writing a computer program. It is not!"

"Not for you, I know, but for me it is. This is the only way I can learn about emotional things. I need to store data before I can start to try to translate the information into my own way of how things feel. I can't translate without defining parameters."

"Parameters? What parameters? What is the scale?"

"You."

"Me?… You lost me."

"Though I probably don't feel like you, I _can_ file your feelings and their appearance. And I can learn to act upon your set of rules from your mindset's perspective. It's almost like any other information. I save them in a… mental database," Sherlock's words were so fast John had problems following. "I process and I compare your descriptions to mine. What is difficult is that usually other people's descriptions are just too superficial and abstract and I lack the necessary information to make reliable connections. Or maybe other people actually just feel different, another possibility is of course that they just are unable to describe sentiment properly. I am not sure, but… this does not mean I am unable to care. I was taught that caring is a disadvantage. Though I have to admit I am pretty much out of practise for to do it, because I didn't want to before. My experiences with people are - overall - not good."

"Uh, Sherlock," John was rendered speechless again. The essence of what Sherlock had just said hitting him with full force.

This was quite a profound utterance of affection - in a platonic way. In fact _all_ Sherlock had done today was.

He cared, and he cared a lot, John understood.

Sherlock had just given him something he hadn't thought was possible. This was more than just an offering of friendship. More like the adoption of a brother.

Well, maybe not in the sense Sherlock knew brotherhood with Mycroft, but their relationship was already close to what John considered brotherhood, but this was progression in the sense of soul mates?

He already had understood his flatmate didn't sort things into mine and yours. John had had problems with that, especially in the beginning, and especially when Sherlock took his laptop or other things he considered private.

But Sherlock lived with the implicitness that everything he had was free for John to access and use - even his credit card. Opening up seemed to be an all-or-nothing-thing with Sherlock. Maybe it was the same with his feelings.

Was this also a factor why he was working so hard to get John's trust back?

"Sherlock..." Putting this into words was not easy for John. Usually he just didn't talk about feelings like this. He couldn't even put it into words for his therapist. But he was sure the detective needed feedback because this day must have been like learning to swim without preparation. "I had a really rough day today and… one of the worst flashbacks I ever had. But as hard as it was, you…" he paused and cleared his voice. "You softened my fall immensely. I don't even want to think about how bad I would feel right now if anyone would have carted me to a hospital. You did good… I mean, it felt horrible but you were a safety net. Kind of…"

Sherlock looked up into his eyes, obviously trying to gather more information to be sure what John meant, he also looked a bit unsure of what to say.

"I need your trust, I guess…. because not-trusting is a disturbance, a contamination of our gathering and interaction. I don't like it," Sherlock finally managed.

Yeah, this was Sherlock, answering his try to say thank you with an unemotional and technical description of his innermost intimate emotions in a way that was astounding intense and beautifully pure.

John smiled, the intensity of the moment making him a bit speechless.

"Thank you, Sherlock," he smiled carefully.

Sherlock looked at him for a moment, his face neutral, then stood up. "You want some tea before going to bed?"

"Actually… Yes, and some telly?"

Sherlock not reacting or having the last line, this must have hit a spot, but at least a positive one.

The moment when Sherlock had touched the scar left him a bit lost about what might have happened in Sherlock's mind. Nevertheless, John realised it was like a kid's probing, the need to know what it feels like.

He seemed affected by the sight of it. John had sensed it was an important moment and granted him to examine and touch it, although it hadn't been easy for him.

It felt a bit like going through old pictures together, letting him participate in his history.

He was sure some day he would know what had happened in Sherlock's head in those minutes.

Presumably, it would take some time until Sherlock had processed all the things of this day and until then there would be no obvious reaction. He would ask tiny questions in moments that weren't related for a normal person but had brought up the topic for him. And he would collect more delicate pieces in ways even more subtle and without drawing attraction to them, no one noticing. It would be best not to disturb the development in progress and just wait.

 

 

 


	7. New work in this series

Hey,

I just wanted to announce I posted the next story in the series to everybody who is interested.

Thank you for reading. :)

 

**Author's Note:**

> If you like my stories, I also just published the first chapter of my next story (Handle with care) right now.  
> It'll be my first longer work and not part of this series, but quite some whump ahead (scopion bites and all).
> 
> I'd be delighted if you let me know what you think!  
> Thank you for reading.


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